Time slowing, molasses creep,
and the hazy, tilt-a-whirl, cacophony of the
*identity* of time.
Captured, captivating, colossal creation.
My rice paper wings,
drugged and stupid with dew,
skewered to the corkboard.
Haze and hope becoming my nine-inch nails,
captive to the revelation.
Before me, the blinding blaze of futures,
imaginings once crucified,
now flaring, rebirth, supernova of
sound and prayers newly risked.
I want (so much) the bravery to risk.
Behind me, the morass of yesterdays,
the siren's song,
the cold, killing comfort of the depths.
My regrets. Heredity,
or some lesser evil, threatening, cajoling.
How many years now
swallowed by this maw?
Eye of the storm,
and the hour of judgement is close at hand.